## Chapter 3

# Chapter Two: The Blessing of Legacy

"We inherit not the earth from our ancestors, but borrow it from our children." — Native Proverb

I'm writing this one at the airport while I work. The hum of departure boards, the smell of coffee, the low rumble of rolling suitcases — it all becomes part of the soundtrack after a while. And it feels right to talk about legacy here, because this is where my family's story has lived for forty years. Forty years of shoes. Forty years of stories. Forty years of people, passing through.

My grandfather started the shoeshine business in 1984. Back then, it was just one chair. One chair, one man, and an idea. He brought his brothers and his brothers-in-law into the fold, and together they turned that single chair into something that lasted longer than any of them probably imagined. When he passed in 2010, my father took over with my great-uncle, and together they kept the thing alive. They kept it humming. And when my great-uncle passed during the pandemic, the baton came my way. Not through some formal handoff. Not with a ceremony or a signature. Through necessity, and relationship. That's how these things pass, I think. Not through paperwork, but through people.

I'll be honest. I didn't always want this life.

In fact, my dad fired me when I was a teenager.

I started shining shoes at fourteen, but he said I didn't appreciate it. He said I didn't see it yet. He wanted me to go out into the world, to learn how to work for someone else before I ever came back to work for myself. So I did. I tried everything — retail, groceries, travel — anything that wasn't the family business. I wanted to know what else was out there. I wanted to know who I was without the chair.

But somehow, life kept steering me back here.

When the pandemic hit, something shifted. The world went quiet, the way it does when everything stops at once, and I finally had the space to think. Really think. About what mattered. About what I wanted to build. I travelled a lot during those two years. Egypt. Spain. Japan. The Philippines. I saw beauty in different forms — temples, markets, street corners, the way the light falls differently in every country — and everywhere I went, I noticed one thing. People. No matter how different our cultures, our languages, our currencies, our gods, we all crave the same thing. Connection. We all want to be seen.

When I came home, the business was in transition. My dad was getting sick. My great-uncle had passed. And the shoeshine trade isn't easy. It isn't for the faint of heart. It's seven days a week, long hours, and you have to genuinely like people. Otherwise, it eats you alive.

But I do like people.

In fact, that's what brought me back here. And it's what keeps me here, day in and day out.

One day my dad sat me down. He looked at me the way fathers do when they're about to say something they need you to remember, and he said, "If someone doesn't take this further, it dies."

That sentence landed like a challenge and a prayer at once.

So I made a choice. I'd take it further.

We started small. Content creation. Social media. Little experiments. I filmed what we did, told the stories of the people who sat in our chairs, because for me, that was why we were there. Sure, we shined shoes. But those shoes were taking travelers all over the world. Everyone who sat down had a story to tell. Everyone had somewhere to be, or somewhere they'd been, or somewhere they were trying to get back to. One of those videos got three million views. Three million. It wasn't about going viral — I didn't expect that at all — it was about proving that even the smallest business can hold something big if it's rooted in people. If it's rooted in presence.

We partnered with a Canadian shoe-care brand. We collaborated with Blundstone. Monster Energy. Sneaker Con. Brands I never imagined would care about a shine stand. But they did care. They noticed that what we do here isn't about polish. It's about presence. It's about being here, day in and day out, watching as people walk by, rush to a flight, or meander around while they wait, or stop in because — when's the last time you thought to do that? When's the last time you sat down and let someone take care of you for ten minutes?

In March of 2024, I started brainstorming where it could all go. More airports? A mobile service? Pickup and drop-off? I was dreaming bigger than ever, but still trying to find the why. Still trying to find the thread that tied it all together.

Then one day, a man stopped by for a shine.

He told me he ran a publishing company. Mid-conversation, between the brushing and the buffing, he said something that stuck. He said, "There's something here. You have so many stories in you."

He wrote his email address in my phone and told me to send him ideas. The first idea I sent him was terrible. I can admit that now. It was a restaurant concept, something about food and storytelling, some half-baked thing I'd dreamed up at two in the morning — but he didn't shut me down. He said, "Keep sending ideas."

So I did.

And with every idea, the picture got clearer. This wasn't just about shoes. It was about people. It was about connection. It was about story. When we finally landed on this book, it felt right. Not a memoir. Not an autobiography. Just stories. The kind that live at the intersection of work and soul.

I grew up hearing stories like these. My grandfather would come home with newspaper clippings — Michael Schumacher, old prime ministers, travelers from around the world — and he'd tell us about who he'd met that day. It wasn't gossip. It was legacy. He believed that every shine carried a story, and those stories carried lessons. He was right. He was almost always right.

I see that now more than ever.

The world has changed. People have changed. But what hasn't changed is the need for connection. After the pandemic, I find that people are desperate to be heard again. They come to the stand not just for a shine, but for a moment of stillness in a rushing world. Sometimes they share things they've never told anyone. Sometimes they just sit quietly, and that's enough. That's more than enough.

I can see their stories as they sit there. I can see everyone now, as clear as day.

That's why this business still matters. Because when I'm here, six, sometimes seven days a week, I see what happens when people stop and talk. We heal each other without even realizing it. It's an honour to get to be a part of someone else's story like that. It really is.

Legacy isn't about inheritance or contracts or keeping a business alive for tradition's sake. Legacy is about what continues through people. My grandfather passed it to my father. My father passed it to me. But what I really inherited isn't a shoeshine stand. It's a purpose. To listen. To serve. To connect.

That's the blessing of legacy. It's not about holding onto the past. It's about carrying it forward in new ways. It's about understanding that the story doesn't end with you. You're just one verse in a longer song.

And as I sit here, writing this between flights and footsteps, I can feel that song still playing. Steady. Human. Alive.